Published on: 3/6/2013
On the off chance I die before you

I'm not sure how we got into this conversation,
how you started planning my funeral speech.

Don't you know that women live longer than men?
Of course, but you are the competitive type.

And nine out of ten times, you are right,
so draft your speech in the form of a poem.

Not a sonnet. Those are sentimental and cheap.
Not a haiku, either. You are too chatty for that.

And no jokes, please.
They aren't your specialty.

Instead, write a parable about a parable
in which I was never a character at all.

Write it in iambic pentameter
No, write it in the following meter—

stressed / stressed
unstressed-stressed

I want to hear the thunk
of your heart in every line

the uneven rhyme of a poem
that doesn't know how to end

the foreseeable sound of words
you never really planned to write.

Published on: 9/29/2011
Routine

I.

The kitchen is dirty.

Food drippings.
Coffee rings.

Dishes and cups
one big disaster.

II.

Dad's the sweeper.

He cleans the hard to reach places -

Under cabinets.
Behind the fridge.
Ceiling corners.

Pauses for a moment
to catch his breath.

III.

Mom was the sink lady.

Hand-washed dishes
to a spotless shine.

She was a sponge of information.

The bubbly one.

"Just a bit sudsy,"
Dad would say.

IV.

Dad used to wrestle dust bunnies
once wrestled a whole dust cat

scooped it up in his hands
ran around the house

chasing my mother's laughter.

V.

The hard to reach places
are getting harder.

His sudsy lady -
she stopped drying dishes.

Forgot her role.
Forgot her name.
Forgot to wake up.

VI.

Dad's knees, unpolished
throb with each movement.

He leans on a chair
for added support

the wrinkles of those hands
strained from too much life.

And still, he sweeps.

Published on: 9/29/2011
On Buying You

I.

You were clearly a house

founded on cement
and support beams

that framework wrapped
in wire, piping, plaster

built for a family
with room to spare.

II.

I had no wedding ring
no pit pat of little feet

just the blue prints -

a man's cologne drifting
through the hallways

piles of bridal magazines
stacked on table tops

an office ready to convert
into a nursery, frilly

and pink for the first go around,
simple and blue for the second,

and one last renovation
for that unexpected child.

III.

When the years have passed
and it's still just you and me

walls cracking with emptiness
bones aching to be held

know that my intentions
were always to fill you.

Even the best laid plans
have no guarantees.